


Happy Nuclear Winter

by GallifreyanAtHearts, lickmymccracken



Series: The Atlanticverse [1]
Category: Cobra Starship, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), Gym Class Heroes, Mindless Self Indulgence, My Chemical Romance, The Academy Is...
Genre: Multi, Trans Killjoys, Trans boy kobra kid, Trans girl jet star, agender party poison, as usual, everyone is a joy, everything is great except for when its not, non descript body horror?, trans bill beckett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6410683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyanAtHearts/pseuds/GallifreyanAtHearts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lickmymccracken/pseuds/lickmymccracken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enter the fabulous four, a little more bundled, a little less camp. Winter is starting to roll into the zones and the crew has to seek shelter from the icy threat.</p><p>Las Cobras, Con men (and woman) extraordinaire, surviving as best they can. Silvertongue's latest brilliant idea, the Church of Hot Addiction isn't doing so well as winter approaches... At least until a strange, pretty pretty Pretty Boy shows up to mystify them all.</p><p>Follow the Fab Four in their home state, along with Las Cobras of the Wandering City, across what might not turn out to be a normal year in the Zones of the Atlantic Ocean</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

       Ghoul rubs his aching knuckles, looks up towards the pale grey sky, thinks about snow.

       He pulls on his stumpy middle finger, twists until it cracks and presses on the top joint of his ring finger.

       He wonders what he’ll lose next.

       It’s getting late in the year, so late that some think She won't come at all. It’s hopeful, but Ghoul knows better. The Ice Queen comes every year, even if it’s just for a week, a few days. They’re just doing better at pleasing Her this season, there’s more to sacrifice, more to present to Her. More statues and idols and amulets popping up at the Boardwalk, in town, grafittied everywhere to ward Her off, please Her, scare Her even. New ‘runners don’t know it, but it’s coming. Ghoul knows it.

       The Ice Queen brings with her every year the pain and death and skin rotting, bone chilling, unbearable cold. Ice and snow, cutting winds that make you fear the future of your nose and your ears. Sand dunes turn into snow drifts, water freezing where it meets the land, where it sits on your face, on the ground. The entire zones are a death trap, a white, waiting beast to swallow you whole, to steal warmth and skin and digits and breath, every breath, coming like a cough of smoke until the air is just too cold to suck in one more.

       ‘Joys stock up and hoard every piece of clothing they can; every layer a hope for making it through the night. Gloves and scarves and hats are made from everything they can find, clothing from the warmer months are forgotten and scrapped to keep warm. No one worries about when summer comes back around and all they’ve got is winter clothes. No one thinks about anything but NOW. Surviving today and tonight and tomorrow morning before the sun comes up or if the sun will come up at all, there could be more snow waiting for all they know.  Dracs that are sent to patrol after She’s hit, clad in warm white suits, snug as a bug in a rug in a fucking fire, never so much as wind-burned, pink in the nose, purple in the tips of the fingers. Seeing them then makes Ghouls blood boil, it keeps him warm.

       No one has any enemies but the City then. Everyone helps everyone else. At least, Ghoul helps everyone else. Nearly two whole fingers later, Ghoul thinks once rather than not at all before giving up gloves, hats, batteries, to ‘Joys who don’t have. ‘Joys who won’t even last the rest of the week, but he tries. He doesn’t stop trying. Maybe this time, this ‘Joy will survive because of his scarf. Maybe letting them sit by the fire for just tonight with help them to the spring.

       A pair of red gloves land in Ghoul’s lap.

       “Maybe red will make you remember that there’s _blood_ in those fingers this time, Ghoul.” Party says from behind him. He sighs and pulls them on, the pinky finger falling over, nothing to fill the knitted digit. Middle and ring finger empty just at the top. He’s thankful he can pull the glove tight enough to make his thumb, missing the top joint, fill the glove.

       “Maybe.” Ghoul smirks up at Party. They’re not wearing a hat yet, taking advantage of Her late arrival to keep from bundling as long as they can. “I think we’ve got about 4 days, P.” He says as party sits next to him on the bench. Kobra and Jet are somewhere in the distance, Ghoul knows, no one is ever too far, especially not this late in the season. Too risky. Party leans their head on Ghouls shoulder.

       “We’ll be at Mall in 2 and a half if we hustle.” They say easily, bored, this is old news. Ghoul knows how quick they can get to Mall, but still worries as usual. “That is if you can keep yourself from getting us into something.” Party teases and Ghoul rolls his eyes.

       “I’ll do my best, asshole.”

       Ghoul pulls the red glove off of his mangled hand and shoved the pair in his pocket. No use in wearing them out just yet.

 

***

 

       One day of travel was a breeze. Getting to Mall during any other season is a quick trip hitting the red line. Stock up on 2 jugs of gas from a Dead Pegasus and you only have to stop for 2 minutes twice. It’s easy peasy shit. During any other season.

       Winter does a number on the car just as much as it does on ‘joys. Party refuses to hit the red line so close to winter, says it’ll hurt the gears or the tires or the entire engine, or something. Party and Jet understand cars but Ghoul and Kobra could care less. Ghoul’s got his mind set to understand bombs and guns and nothing else. Kobra tried to help Party with the car once but that wasn’t good for anyone. Party Poison speaking at their usual miles a minute pace while the Kid turned red and scowled at the engine. Jet comforted him after storming away, trying his best not to scream or cry. He felt insignificant, he’d say later. Knowing cars felt like a Manly Man thing, and he couldn't even begin to comprehend. Even out in the zones where no one cares who or what you were back in the city, it's easy to forget that there’s some things people can’t change. Jet and Kobra stick together like there’s a common vein going between them, both escaping a life from Before that still chases all the way out to the zones.

       Kobra is the sharpest shot of them all, a skill that cancels out any inequities he faces from other ‘joys. He killed off Dracs before they could see him, before they could see any of them, BAM, a Drac goes down, head first off it’s bike, clean shot through the helmet. Ghoul is never not awestruck by the sheer beauty of it all. Kobra’s entire body lines itself up as if his whole body becomes part of the gun. He keeps himself down on one knee, stable and unmoving where his prosthetic meets his knee, cushioned under a knee pad. He stiffens his whole body, rigid as a rock, barely breathing, and it's as if he can see miles away. .

       The night before leaving for Mall, Kobra and Party set up a fire, and everyone sleeps easy. The morning is sickly brisk, all red noses (red is good, red is safe), cold toes inside of boots, and hands pressed into armpits. Kobra was the first awake, stoking the tiny fire build on drift wood, just on the edge of too wet to light, and pocket lint that’s ever precious. Poison slipped away as soon as they woke up, now tossing dead weeds into Kobra’s fire, something still green in the bundle creating a small plume of thick smoke in the center of the warmth. No one spoke, no one needed to. Pretty soon they were all sat by Kobra, warming up hands devoid of gloves, kicking off boots for scant moments to ease the icy pins in the digits.

       Jet was the one to get up first, her thick curls left down to keep her face and neck a bit warmer until the sun was fully up. She grabbed her pack, shook her canteen to check how much of it was frozen, and cracked a few joints.

       “Everyone good? Kid, take Party’s gloves you’re looking grey.” She says, first voice of the new day. The sun is behind her, peering over the dull horizon, sky a smoggy grey-green-blue above. Kobra nods and everyone is already around him packing up things. He sits by the fire just a bit longer, savoring the small warmth. Party drops Kobra’s bag to the left of him and offers a hand, sans-glove. They both stamp out the fire. The day starts like this:

 

       The car stutters and stops. Party Poison is out of the drivers side door cursing up a storm before anyone really realizes the battery is shitting out on them. Everyone else stays in the car, reacting accordingly:

       Ghoul stretches his legs out over the top of Party’s driver's seat, sinking so low in the bench of the back row that his ass is barely in contact with the cracked leather anymore.

       Jet lowers the radio, listens for Party to ask her to crank the engine again, give it some gas, stop stop stop, in between strings of curses and pleas.

       Kobra rolls down his window, throws his long legs over Ghoul’s lap (or where his lap would be if he were sitting in his seat correctly, now it’s mostly his chest and stomach supporting lanky legs), hangs his head out the window, sunglasses perched on his nose, his regular glasses sitting in his lap.  

       The car is more like home than any hideout or pinpoint on any zone map. The car has been through thick and thin, come back to life from the absolute brink of death and still hits the red line when the weather is warmer. A sputtering engine is far from the worst the foursome has seen in the car's lifetime, but it doesn’t stop Party from reacting like BLI just rode up and took the entire engine block out of the hood of the car. The car has been there for it all, and will continue to be there until everyone’s demise. It’s all or nothing.

       Everyone has a seat in the car. That seat is molded to them, a seat that they've slept in, they've bled in, cried in, puked in… You get the point. Your car seat is your mark left in the world. When The Car is just a hunk of spare parts, burning or rusting somewhere in the zones, your seat will be there, and the world will know, Party Poison, Fun Ghoul, Jet Star, and the Kobra Kid existed in this plane of existence for one hot minute.

       Without warning Jet cranks the key in the ignition and the car _vrooms_ to life, humming and content. Party whoops from outside, drops the hood, kisses it, and off they go, the stereo tuned to the least amount of static, down Death Valley, straight towards Mall.  

       As far as driving trips go, Mall isn’t all too bad. They’ve made the trek the past two winters, and once in the fall on accident. Party twirls their hair, letting crisp air in through the window every so often. They all sing along to the stereo, the scratched discs skipping occasionally until Jet gives the player a small kick with the heel of her boot. Kobra waits as long as possible to move his feet off of Ghoul’s lap, but if there were ever a day that Fun Ghoul could sit in the same position for more than five minutes, the Jersey Devil itself might just come around to ask him if he’s alright, so Kobra is forced to move back into only occupying one seat. He leans forward to braid the ends of Jet’s hair humming along with her and the stereo. Ghoul tries to put his feet over Party’s shoulders and gets a squawking shout in return with empty threats to kick him out of the car.

       The sun is past high noon, maybe 4 hours before dusk, and Ghoul and Jet are telling tall tales, making the ever superstitious Party Poison pull the karma beads off their wrist and scowl at the road ahead while rubbing them between their fingers, pressing them to their lips every so often. Kobra snickers from where he’s now seated behind Party, since Ghoul decided he wanted to sit behind Jet Star for a bit.

       “The Devil’s got your number, baby, run run run and hide, little baby!” Jet and Ghoul sing, taunting Party.

       “Cut it out Space Girl, you don’t know it.” Party grumbles. “It’s gonna fuckin’ swallow you whole one day, and if you all think I’m gonna shoot a deity to save your sorry asses you’ve got some pills left in you.”

       “Oh come on, P. We’re not even in Devil county, haven’t been for hours.” Kobra says, half-assedly trying to soothe Party’s fears, and some of his own. He touches his own karma beads on his wrist gently.

       “You think an all powerful dragon from the earth’s crust is gonna adhere to a map!?” Party practically squeals.

       “Well.. Yeah?” Kobra starts to say.  

       “It’s not just a _dragon,_ Pity Party, it’s a _goat_ dragon. And it’s from the mantle.” Jet says, dramatically rolling her eyes. “You’d think someone so superstitious would know better.”

       Kobra bites his lip and smiles, but Party is frowning deeply, beads clenched between their hand and the steering wheel. They grumble, “Seriously you’re all gonna get it.”

       Jet laughs and puts her boots up on the dashboard, changing the words to the song playing to make it about the Jersey Devil coming and stealing Party’s boots and dyeing their hair green. Kobra silently rubs his karma beads out of Ghoul’s line of sight. He’d definitely change the direction of teasing over to Kobra if he saw him. Sure they all wear Karma beads, but they’re playing around and no one is free from being teased when it comes to superstitions.

       Kobra turns his head from where he was watching Party’s angered expression in the mirror as they turn to shove Jet Star when he notices Ghoul’s stopped laughing along with Jet. Fun Ghoul moves out of his seat to stick his body between the two front seats, getting a closer look at something through the front windshield. “Shut up, shut up.” He calls out and everyone is quickly snapped to attention.

       They're driving through a dead town, one with only a few buildings still standing from the wars. It hasn’t got a name anymore, and while there’s no one in plain sight they all can be sure there's a few that call this place home. Kobra’s eyes scan to see what’s got Ghoul’s attention but he’s got limited view of the windshield now that Ghoul’s taking up most of it, and he can’t see shit from the window to his left.

       “Ghoul what’s--” Party starts.

       “Stop the car, stop the car. Fuck, stop the damn car, P, fucking--” Ghoul moves quickly back into his seat and tears his door open just as Party’s stepping on the brake. Jet’s the first to see Ghoul’s got his gun out and then she’s right behind him.

       The car turns off and Party’s got the keys in his pocket and his gun in hand with kobra following right behind.

       “There’s a BLI van. 11 o’clock behind that billboard.” Ghoul rasps. They all aim towards it and Kobra, being the best shot, gets down on his knee in front of the car, body rigid. No one breathes, no one moves. Nothing happens.

       “You think they’re waiting for us to take the first shot?” Party whispers after a long stretch of nothing, their voice clear as day in the silence of the ghost town.

       “They wouldn’t stay still for that long, not when we’re right in front of them.” Jet answers back, her voice a little louder.

       “You think it’s empty?” Ghoul hisses, still unconvinced.

       “They wouldn’t leave a van there if someone had ghosted the ‘Dracs driving it. They’d’ve come to get it by now.” Kobra says and lowers his gun.

       “This isn’t right.” Ghoul agrees. No one makes a move just yet, the air thick with uncertainty and anticipation. Another breath passes and Ghoul holsters his gun. Nothing of this situation is normal. He starts off in the direction of the van. Party looks around at everyone else, eyebrows raised in question. Kobra pushes off the asphalt, gun still in hand, and follows Ghoul.

 

       The Van is completely deserted. The keys are out of the ignition, which is strange if the Drac or ‘Crow that had been driving the car was dusted. Jet Star climbs in the passenger seat, opens the glove box, rooting around for anything worth while. There’s a pack of cigarettes about, half empty, that she sticks out of the open window blindly for someone to grab. Party is on the driver’s side, sticking their head under the seat and the steering wheel.

       “This really isn’t right.” Kobra says from the outside. He must’ve been the one to take the cigarettes from her hand, Jet concludes. She steps out of the van, checks out the BLI logo painted onto the side of the car then spits a nice one right in the center. “Nice one.” Kobra says, giving her a small hip check. Party comes around the van, calling to Ghoul who’s behind the van, working open the lock on the back doors.

       “Fuck.” Is all they hear him say and in a breath they’re all grouped behind the open double doors on the back of the van.

       “What is it?” Party asks, close to Ghoul’s right flank. To Party, Kobra, and Jet, it was just lines of plastic jugs in crates, all laid out in black and white like Dracs sitting in the back of the van. It was just supplies or something to them. But clearly, clearly they were wrong.

       All the color drained from Ghoul’s face as he stared into the van.

       “This is a bomb.” His voice was just above a whisper. His own dread creeps and spreads through everyone else like a cold chill, sick, freezing blood coursing through their veins. Kobra slips his free hand into Jet’s and she squeezes back in return. Ghoul climbs into the back of the van between the lines of jugs. One BLI Van with a bomb couldn’t mean much could it? Just trying to get rid of the ghost town probably, Kobra thought.

       Ghoul moves to open up the box at the end of the line, behind the front seats of the van, hunched over himself. He pulls his hair back and ties it up-- a maneuver he has to work to perfect every time he loses another digit. They don’t know he’s got bombs wired right into his brain, that the second he looks at the wires in the box he’s got it, like simple math. He’s a weapon, a loaded gun waiting to let loose pig bombs at any moment. The rest of the foursome waits and watches as Ghoul plucks out wires and spills smaller containers of liquid out.

       “Let’s go.” Ghoul rasps and pulls the hair tie out of his hair with one good finger, his jaw tight and his eyes cast down. Party kisses the crown of his head, a silent thank you, because Ghoul never wants to hear it. They get back in the car but nothing is the same.

  
  


       The second day is strange right from the beginning. Party wakes up in the morning being met with Ghouls tired face staring out at the sky. He hasn't slept a wink, Party knows.

       Anyone in their crew knows in the moment when to say something and when to keep your mouth shut. Party, mostly, is the one to give up the gracious chance to keep your mouth shut, and will often get decked in the face, though they've all been their place once or twice. When Fun Ghoul has worked himself into a panic, the kind of anxious state where he doesn't sleep, doesn't talk, doesn't eat unless forced to, you keep your mouth shut, and shut tight.

       On any normal day Fun Ghoul is hard-wired to be any 'joys friend. He's just about as notoriously friendly as Party Poison, but on a different level. Party will feed you kind words of encouragement, a soft clap on the shoulder and a bright smile. Fun Ghouls gives the shirt off his back, the blood from his veins to save another ‘joy. Fun Ghoul functioning on the unweilding electricity of anxiety alone, ironically, would bite your finger off if you looked at him the wrong way. His crew knows it’s because he cares way too much, way too hard, and the thought of his crew in a sort of danger that he can’t fix? Well, even the strongest of ‘joys have a weakness.

       The crew had driven on in serious silence for another 4 hours after the ghost town. The air was heavy even with the windows open. Ghoul was a cold chill in the back, staring straight at outside the window for the entire ride, watching dying and dead plants whizz past with a few fingers pressed to cold glass. They stopped when the hungry moon was at the top of the sky, stars dotting deep black, and the silence hadn’t been broken once.

       Everyone had the same things on their mind. What did the van bomb mean? It must have been set there by BLI, a joy wouldn’t set a bomb (most wouldn't have access to make one anyway) in a place that has been and continues to be used as shelter. A warm place, or just a shelter to get out of the wind or rain is too precious. Were there more bombs in place? If so, how many? What were they there for? To destroy shelters, give the zone rats less places to be safe, maybe they’ll die out on their own? Or maybe they're just there to kill them without using the city’s man-power, do it the lazy way. Lambs to the slaughter.

 

       They make it to Mall unscathed-- physically at least, though, Party worried a hole in their lip, now scabbing and becoming ever harder not to bite at, and Kobra silently worries that Ghoul is going to get a hole in his stomach, the way he knows Ghouls stomach churns, physical, viscous anxiety-ridden acid biting at stomach tissue-- by mid-morning the third day of travel. Everyone stretched their legs in the musky smelling underground parking lot under Mall, all concrete and long dead light fixtures on the wall. Pop Rocket, who unofficially owns Mall, she's claimed her stake her long long before any of the Fab Four started to seek shelter there, meets them down in the garage with a bright smile.

 

       “Glad you guys made it safely!” Pop Rocket exclaims happily, giving Party a big hug. Pop Rocket is a small woman, half a head shorter than Fun Ghoul, and only reaching the top of Party’s chest. She's got a body soft and shapely like a cloud, the works of her beautifully unique genes that also gave her gorgeous dark curls that stick out more wildly than Jet Star’s, and skin the color of warm firewood, dotted with freckles. She's got a smile that splits her pretty face in two with a gap big enough for a knife to stick in between her front teeth, nearly black eyes that see through you in a second. No one is so sure of her age, no one in their crew at least, she could anywhere between 25 and 45, the kind of wisdom and calculated trust that's seen years and years of the zones, and air of youth and freshness that follows her around like a juvie hall, just out of the city in the springtime.

       Pop Rocket runs with just one other ‘joy, an impossibly tall person called Static Cat, and Pop’s child called Rose until she decides one day to claim her own name. Static Cat is a looming figure, skin like a sweet dark night, cool and starless, after a big rain. Static is never far behind Pop Rocket, and while many speculate Static is Pop’s lover, no one would dare to insinuate that in front of them. Static and a cool air of calm, evenness to relax even the most tense of situations with all these ‘joys living in one place for an entire season. Pop’s kid is something of a living legend to ‘runners of all ages. A kid born out in the zones, surviving and adapting, living free of any influence of the city. Most kids born out here are lost to the Queen, or sent out to sea by natural causes before they're old enough to toddle around the zones without a tight grip on their parents’ hands. There's not a single ‘joy around that won't drop what they're doing to help Pop Rocket if Rose is in danger and they're close enough to get there.

       Party gives Pop a tight squeeze and grins down at her. “As usual we’re glad you’ll have us!” They give one of Pop’s hands a tiny peck on the knuckle, typical in Party’s extravagant display. Always putting on a show, but never hiding behind the curtain, Jet says. Party, Kobra, Ghoul and Jet start off towards the stairs, grateful to be out of the car, legs finally stretched out. Ghoul is still buzzing with dark, deep anxiety, but Kobra takes his hand, gives him a small nod when they lock eyes. Jet ruffles Ghoul’s hair and Party shoots a bright, genuine grin over their shoulder at the rest of their crew. It doesn’t make everything better, but it does help to push the bubble of black tar and smog a little further down into Fun Ghoul’s stomach. He smiles back, small and shy. Pop chats with Party along the way up and out of the cement garage and into the first floor of Mall and just like that, it’s the start of the winter, same as always.


	2. Chapter 2

"Just give in, Silver.”  T-Blade says softly, running her hands through Silvertongue’s dark curls in her lap.  She looks down at him, and he up at her.

“It’s not working.”  Lucky Strike chimes in from where he sits at Silver’s feet.

“You guys are right.”  Silver sighs, nudging Lucky with his big toe that’s poking through a hole in his yellow sock.  Lucky pokes him back.  “I thought we really had something with this one.”

“The Queen is coming.”  Lucky says.  “If she wasn’t I’d say give it another few weeks, but we need to get through winter, and this just isn’t generating enough revenue.”

“Can one of you go and get Wind-Up and Pitch?”  Silver asks.  “No point in them standing out in the cold if we’re gonna pack it up.  Maybe we should just hole up and wait for the Queen to leave.”

“I will.”  T says and she meets Lucky’s eyes.  Silvertongue can get bad sometimes after one of his money making schemes fails.  He hates letting them down, they all know, and none of them ever blame him, but he never listens to reason.   _Keep an eye on him,_ is what she silently communicates to Lucky.  Lucky nods imperceptibly.  T displaces Silver and stands up, leaving Silver draped melodramatically on the bed, an arm flung across his eyes.

T-Blade doesn’t make it farther than the door though, because when she opens it, Wind-Up and Pitch are there, and between them is the most beautiful person T has ever seen.  The stranger looks down at her with kind, dark eyes, framed by long lashes.  They’re tall and androgynous, with long hair, their skin flushed from the wind.  Even through the patched winter coat, T can tell that they're thin, worryingly so.  Their lips are bleeding from dry cracks and T can guess that in their worn, threadbare gloves, their hands are probably in the same state.

“Who…?”  T begins.  Silver opens one eye, and then sits up, and then stands and crosses the room, smiling blindingly.

“Welcome to the Church of Hot Addiction, baby.”  Silver says, grand and flirtatious.  The stranger is almost as tall as he is.  “I’m Silver, short for Silvertongue, and yes, there is a story, but that’s nothing you need to know about.”  He continues with a conspiratorial wink and T throws a glance at Lucky Strike, who shrugs helplessly.

“I’m-”  The stranger starts, but Silver places a finger over their lips.

“Whoever you are out _there_ , doesn’t matter in _here_ , honey.”  Silver says, with a charming grin.  The Wind-Up slips past Silver into the room and Silver notices that the crack in his glasses is getting worse.  His heart sinks for a moment, but then he turns his attention back to their new mark-- sorry, the term they’re using now is _worshipper_ \-- as The Pitch follows Wind-Up.  Silver is vaguely aware that they are conferring with T and Lucky but he pays little attention. “You’re certainly a pretty one, aren’t you.”  Silver coos, and he throws his arm around the _worshipper’s_ shoulders.

“This is some sort of religion…?”  The worshipper seems confused.

“Mhm.”  Silver says.  “The Church of Hot Addiction, pretty boy.  Are you a boy?  Not that it matters, of course.  Anyway, we believe that God is pleasure and pleasure is Godly.”

“Something fairly close to a boy anyway.”  The stranger says, shrugging off Silver’s arm.

“Pretty Boy it is, then.”  Silver says brightly.  “So, Pretty Boy.  Pleasure.”  He moves so the stranger can see the four people standing in the room, and he hopes they have enough sense to look sexy.  “Pay up, and take your pick.”  The worshipper stares, suddenly grasping what is going on here.

“Look at their face.”  T says.  She’s not quite dressed for winter yet, her fake fur-lined hoodie half unzipped with nothing underneath and short skirt that just bares the signature knife she wears in her namesake thigh holster over her brightly striped tights.  She leans forward, selling the image, and Silver mentally congratulates her.

“Like a deer in the headlights.”  Agrees Lucky.  “Didn’t you guys explain the way this works to them?”

“That’s Pitch’s job,” Wind-Up sighs and takes his glasses off to clean them on his shirt.  The Pitch says nothing, and the worshipper is still frozen, calculating.

“I don’t have much.”  They admit.  Silver’s smile slips a bit before he recovers.  T comes up behind Silver, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Whaddaya got?”  She asks, but her voice is a tiny bit colder than before.

“Just… Just me.  And what I’m wearing.”  Silver’s heart plummets.  They’re so thin and ragged and Silver feels awful.

“Well then, what can you do for us?”  He asks quietly.  He feels the others staring holes into his back.

“I don’t know.”  Pretty Boy sighs.  “I’ll leave, I’m sorry for wasting your time.”  They start to leave.  Silver watches silently.  He is aware of T trying to get his attention but he just stares as Pretty Boy leaves.

Silver makes a snap decision.  He turns to his crew behind him.  “I can’t let them out in the cold, you saw them.”  He’s almost pleading.  “We can support another for the winter, right?”  He says.

T sighs. The Wind-Up and The Pitch are murmuring to each other, and Lucky is gently banging his head into the wall.

“If they help out, we could probably swing it.”  T admits.  Silver grins.

He dashes after Pretty Boy, calling “Wait!”  The worshipper turns.  “We’ve decided,” Silver says, grinning though the cold makes his teeth chatter.  “That if you are willing to join the Church, you can stay.”  He sees them look around at the buildings of the motel, shelter, mostly warm, furnished.  Safe.

“What would I have to do?”  They ask, but Silver can see in their tired eyes that there isn’t much they wouldn’t do for a safe place to sleep.

“Just what we do, Pretty Boy.  A little scavenging, a little fighting, a little religious prostitution.”  Silver tries for casual, but he’s shivering too hard.

“Deal.”  Pretty Boy mutters.

“Then get the fuck inside, Pretty Boy, it’s freezing.  T-Blade will set you up with a room.”  He takes Pretty Boy by the arm and they hurry toward the building.

“Which one is T-Blade?”

“The one with the tits.”  Silver says.  “It’s ‘cause she keeps her blade in a thigh holster.  T-Blade.”

Pretty Boy says nothing as they walk into the room.  The remaining Cobras stare at them as they walk in, Silver with an arm wrapped protectively around Pretty Boy.

“They’re with us now.”  He says.  “Through the winter, at least.  They’ve agreed to _work_.”  He shivers, still cold.  “T, find them a room with working heat near this one.  The rest of you out of here, I need to talk to our new friend.”  The others nod, and they file out and Silver gives each of them a kiss on the cheek as they pass him.

Once the door is closed, he starts talking to a nervous looking Pretty Boy.

“This is my room.  We usually hang out here or the lounge in the other building.  When it gets really cold, we usually all sleep here.  You are, of course welcome to join us, but we have a few days at least before the weather gets that bad.  My clothes should fit you.”  He pauses to let Pretty Boy absorb the information.

“A room.  I get a room.  With a bed.  And a heater.”  They say, seeming stunned.

“It even comes with a crew that you can trust and who will take care of you.”  Silver says gently, rummaging in the old motel dresser where he keeps his warm clothes.  “Put these on, what you’re in doesn’t look nearly warm enough.  Except the coat and gloves.  Keep those, you’ll need them.”  Silver watches Pretty Boy strip.  They’re so painfully thin, it hurts Silver to watch.  They’re pale with a scar on their shoulder that looks like an old ray gun burn.

“Where’re you from, honey?”  Silver asks, looking away politely but belatedly.

“Well, they used to call it Chicago.”

“I was there a few times.  Not recently.  You’re a long way from home.”

“I was here when… When things changed.  After that, there was no travelling back.”  Silver nods and hopes Pretty Boy can see.

“Do you have a problem with being called Pretty Boy?”  Silver asks.  “Or using the singular ‘they’ for you?”

“No, I like it.  I’ve never thought about asking anyone to use any pronoun other than the one they gave me when I was born, but I like it.  As for Pretty Boy… It could be worse, I suppose.”  But they’re grinning at Silver when he sneaks a peak, so he’s okay with that answer.  Silver gives them a tired smile back.

“There's something about you…”  He says.  “I can't place it.”  Pretty Boy shrugs.  They’re pulling on a thermal shirt that Silver won in a poker game.  He’s lost count of how many times he’s sewn it.  It looks good on them.  “I started the Church.”  Silver begins to explain the con, but Pretty Boy looks at him with wide eyes.

“Like a prophet?”  Silver sighs internally at their words.  Keeping the act up all the time will be exhausting but he feels bad letting this sad, lost Killjoy down.

“Something like that, sure.”  He rubs his face with both hands tiredly.  He sits on the bed and he closes his eyes.  He feels Pretty Boy sit next to him.

“Are you okay?”  They ask, surprising Silver into looking at him.

“Exhausted.  Times are hard.”  Pretty Boy rests their head on his shoulder.

“I feel that.”

They’re both silent for a moment, resting comfortably until there is a pop and a hiss and Silver groans.

“That’ll be the heater again.  It’s gonna get cold in here until I can fix it.”  Pretty Boy scoots closer and tucks himself into Silver’s side.

“Warm.”  Is all they say, and Silver wraps his arm around them.  He feels good about this kid, like he knows them and can trust them.

“We’ll be alright.”  Silver says and he sits up a little as he hears T’s footsteps outside.  She doesn’t knock, doesn’t make any comment about the way Silver and the new kid are situated.

“Your heat is out again.”  She says and he nods.  “Anyway, room 106 is heating up for our Pretty Boy.”  She grins at them and sits down on Pretty Boy’s other side.  She puts her arm around their shoulders, smooshing them between her and Silver.  “You got any stuff to bring over?”

Pretty Boy shakes their head and Silver and T share a look.  She grimaces a little, nods a little, and fluffs Pretty Boy’s long hair.

“We’ve got a pair of first rate scavengers.”  She says.

“And that’s in addition to whatever the Church gets as payment or donations.”  Silver adds and T looks at him over Pretty Boy’s head.  Silver makes a helpless expression.

“Do you guys get a lot of… donations?”  Pretty Boy sounds skeptical.  The answer is no, never, not that the Cobras don’t try to encourage it from worshippers.  Payment? Always.  But donations not so much.

“Times are hard.”  Silver says again.  He manages a smile when Wind-Up burst in.  He takes in the scene.

“Silver?  Pitch is out in the street, with a potential.”  He says.  “Knowing Pitch, he’ll have her in here in a few.”

“T, why don’t you bring Pretty Boy here to their room and I’ll take this one.”  Silver stands as he speaks.  T stands too.

“I want to stay.”  Pretty Boy says defiantly.  “If I’m going to stay, I’m gonna work for it.”  Wind-Up looks at Silver and Silver shrugs.

“Whatever.”  T says.  She tosses a key labeled with Pretty Boy’s room number to Silver.  “I’m going to find somewhere warm.”  She kisses Silver lightly on the mouth before she goes, taking Wind-Up with her.

“Are you and her…?”  Pretty Boy asks after the door closes behind T.

“Nah.”  Silver says, but he quiets as T’s footsteps fade, and new ones approach, accompanied by Pitch’s familiar ones.  Silver gives Pretty Boy a dazzling grin as the door opens.

Pitch enters, and there’s a woman with him.

“Hey sweetheart.”  Silver says.  She’s silent.  She takes off her scarf, hat, and gloves and hands them to Pitch.  Pitch inspects them and nods at Silver.  Silver gestures to Pretty Boy, still sitting on the bed.  She nods.  Pitch slips out of the room and with a last look at Pretty Boy, Silver follows.

* * *

 

“Bad news from Spin.”  Lucky says one day.  T looks up from the warmed up brownish glop she’s eating, and Silver catches her eye worriedly from his perch on the arm of the dusty, holey sofa in his room.

“What does he say?”  Pretty Boy asks.  Silver readily admits that he likes the way they look, huddled in his bed, wearing his blanket like a cape.  It’s been days, and though Pretty Boy seems better all the time, Silver still worries about them.  Still, it’s been nice watching them open up from cautious and quiet, with an air of having been fucked over too many times, to being loudmouthed and comfortable with a sense of humor that perfectly compliments Silver’s.

“He didn’t say. Something’s happening, though, something big.  He’s coming down here.”  Lucky says gravely.  

“T, go find Wind-Up and Pitch and tell them.”  Silver says quietly.  She nods quickly, eyes downcast and hurries from the room, leaving her half finished can of who-the-fuck-knows, and Silver knows she is trying not to show her concern.  Pretty Boy observes all of this.

“Is that bad?”  They ask and Silver gets up and sits next to them on his bed.

“Spin Doctor wouldn’t jeopardize his position within the Industry by coming out here to have brunch, Pretty Baby”  He says.  Pretty Boy says nothing about the use of the pet name.

“Wait - You guys know _Spin Doctor_?”  Pretty Boy says after a moment of processing.

“Yeah.  And keep it to yourself.”  Lucky says.

“But-- Nobody knows Spin Doctor.”  Pretty Boy gapes, eyes wide.

“We do.”  Silver says throwing an arm around Pretty Boy.

“And _Spin Doctor_ is with the _Industry_?”

“He’s a spy.  He’s the most reliable weapon we have against them.”  Lucky says with a small smile.  T-Blade comes in just then with Wind-Up close on her heels, holding her hand tightly.  The Pitch troops in a moment later, almost his entire body obscured by warm clothing layers insulating his long limbs and torso.  He immediately sheds his coat and gloves, and joins Silver and Pretty Boy on the bed, sprawling out, not caring who his limbs land on.

“No shoes on the bed!”  Pretty Boy says.  Pitch doesn’t move.

“Good, everyone’s here.”  Silvertongue says.  “This is the plan.  Everyone needs to be out.  Those who have paid can stay until the time they’ve bought is up.  No one books more time, no new worshippers.  They can’t be here when Spin gets here.”  There are nods of agreement all around.

Almost all around.

“They won’t recognize him, anyway.”  Pretty Boy says.  “No one knows what he looks like.  Why should we have to stop our flow of income.  If you could call it that.”

“That would hypothetically be a good point.”  Wind-Up says.  “If we were dealing with anyone a fraction less paranoid.  And it’s not like he doesn’t have good reason.”

“Spin likes his privacy.”  T explains.  “He’ll only be here a day, maybe two.  It’s not that big of a deal, we’ve been through worse.”  Pretty Boy is silent.  Silver thinks that Pretty Boy’s been through worse too, but not made it through quite so well.  Pitch kicks at Silver, and he’s not sure if it’s on purpose or not, but he puts his hand on Pitch’s hip and easily rolls him off the bed.  He gets the satisfaction of watching The Pitch flail and hears him land with a thump.  Pretty Boy grins as Pitch stands and brushes himself off and makes a rude gesture at Silver.

“And the same to your mother.”  Silver says.

“Anyway…”  Lucky says.

“We’re your crew now.”  Silver says gently to Pretty Boy after a long moment.  “You’re going to be fine.  We’re all going to be fine, Pretty Baby.”  Pretty Boy leans into Silver and Silver wraps his arms around them.  T-Blade coos at them, and Wind-Up’s tense posture softens.

“Group pile!”  Calls Lucky, and suddenly Pretty Boy and Silver have four other bodies pressing down on top of them.  The warm weight of his little family is comforting to Silver and Pretty Boy is laughing, so Silver knows that they are okay with this.

The moment passes, and though Silver is loathe to do it, he sends T-blade, Wind-Up, and Pitch back to their positions, and Pretty Boy back to their own room, to await _visitors_.  Pretty Boy’s been doing most of the fucking since they got here, and that’s fine, as long as they seem to be fine with it.  Lucky stays with Silver.

“It’s bad this time, Silver.”

“We’ll get through it.  We always do.”  Lucky takes Silver’s hand.  Silver squeezes.

Preparing for a visit from Spin Doctor is a lot of work and, for Silver, more heartbreak than is strictly necessary.  He feels awful for every Killjoy he has to deny a warm bed, especially since those Killjoys are ready to pay handsomely.

But Spin Doctor is coming.

Silver catches T-Blade talking quietly to Wind-Up and Lucky, but they refuse to tell him what about and he pouts for days.  He only managed to glean that they were talking about Pretty Boy.

Silver and T work to clean a room for Spin Doctor, and after a few hours, it almost doesn’t smell.

Every day, The Pitch leaves an offering for the Ice Queen, and as she draws nearer, the gifts grow more desperate.  Whenever anyone walks in or out of Silver’s room, they nod or press a kiss to the little idol that represents her outside his door.  No one wants to be on her bad side when she arrives.

Wind-Up takes Pretty Boy up to the Boardwalk, a trip that takes them a few days.  When they come back, they seem closer.  The Pitch points out to him that Wind-Up’s glasses have new, moderately less cracked lenses, and that Pretty Boy seems to smile more when Wind-Up talks.  Silver approves.  He makes a mental note to ask Wind-Up what he traded for the glasses.

Silver fixes the heater in his bedroom, sews up holes in clothes, furniture and linens, with help from Pitch, and completes a number of other chores he hasn’t gotten around to.

They're still waiting when one day after about a week, Pretty Boy and Wind-Up having just returned from the Boardwalk, Pretty Boy comes to Silver’s room.  Pretty Boy’s been with them for about three weeks and winter is all but here.  Silver is only mildly surprised to see them.  He's distracted, thinking, and doesn’t look up, though he hears them enter.

“Silvertongue?”  Pretty Boy asks.

“What’s up, Pretty Baby?”  Silver says, bending his neck backward to see behind him.

“I’ve… I’ve been thinking.”  They say slowly, and Silver turns around properly.

“A dangerous pastime.”  He says sagely.  Pretty Boy snorts.

“Maybe for people like you, who haven’t used their brains a day in their lives.”  Silver grins widely at their words.

“So what have you been thinking, pretty, Pretty Baby?”  Silver croons, earning him a whack on the head.  “Such abuse I put up with.  And to think, only weeks ago, I took them in off the street and -”  SIlver shakes his head sadly.

“Okay, okay, enough with the guilt trip because I’m not sorry.”  Pretty Boy says.  Silver grins again.  “That’s what I’ve been thinking about, actually.  I-”  Pretty Boy is forced to stop talking by Silver jamming his index finger to their lips.

“If you think you are just going to _leave_ into the _freezing cold_ , and that _any_ of us would let you go and _die_ in the cold-”  Silver works himself up into a lather.  No one would really _force_ Pretty Boy to stay if they were determined to leave but...

“’M no’ leavin’”  Pretty Boy mumbles against Silver’s finger.  Silver moves his finger.

“Say again?”

“I’m not leaving.  I’d have to be an idiot to give up what you guys have given me.  I’m _grateful_ … I probably would be frozen dead somewhere by now if you guys hadn’t taken me in.”  They  look down at Silver where he sits.

“Oh.”  Is all Silver can think to say, because what is there to say to an admission like that?  And the look in Pretty Boy’s eyes…  He stands and pulls Pretty Boy into his arms.  Pretty Boy folds into him, vulnerable.

“Wind-Up and I fucked when we were away.”  They say abruptly.

“Okay.”  Silver is not sure of what to say, not surprised, but also not expecting it.

“He said it was… It was worship.  That you guys fuck sometimes for Church reasons?”  Pretty Boy sounds unsure, and like they seriously don’t want to have this conversation.

Wind-Up was only half lying, Silver is pretty sure everyone in his crew has fucked each other at some point.  They love each other.  It’s cold and fucking is warm.  It’s fun.  But not because of the Church.  Silver again feels guilty for making Pretty Boy believe in the con.

“Yeah.”  Silver says awkwardly.  “If that’s a problem, or if you don’t want-”

“No!”  Pretty Boy pulls back to look at Silver.  “I mean, I do want… Oh, fuck.”  They stop for a second to organize their thoughts.  Silver waits.

“What I was thinking is,” they start slowly, “if that I start doing all the Church fucking, like we talked about the other day…”  They pause and Silver remembers that conversation, another it seemed like they didn’t want to have, with him and T-Blade, bringing forward the idea that because they had come with nothing, and because they were doing most of the Church ‘stuff’ anyway, they should just take on the sole responsibility for it.

“Well,” they continue, “would that mean we would fuck?”  Silver nearly chokes on his own spit.

“You don’t have to-”  He’s panicking, because he’s suddenly he’s looking at Pretty Boy, at their long eyelashes spread over pale cheekbones flecked with faint freckles, at the dip of their collar bones, the line of their throat, their pink, pink, slightly chapped lips. Suddenly he’s thinking about it and nothing else and very much wants to fuck them.

“I want to.  You need to worship somehow.  Same for the others.”  Pretty Boy looks steadily at Silver, although they pause for a heartbeat too long before adding the last part.

Pretty Boy’s lips are soft, the angles of their body are hard, hips and collarbone and shoulders.  Their hair is soft, their skin is soft.  They are warm, burning under Silver’s hands and lips.

(When Silver fucks them, the sounds they make are soft, too.)

“Does it bother you at all?  He asks them, after, warm and sweaty, Pretty Boy’s hair stuck to his face, he’s so close to them.

“Does what bother me?”  They say, content and sleepy, unable and unwilling to hide it from Silver, even though they are supposed to find this fucking impersonal.

“The worshippers.  The worship.  If it bothers you -”

“The intimacy of it.”  Pretty Boy says, almost absently.  “They’re shy or they’re shameless.  But it’s always intimate.  It can be overwhelming, having to connect with so many people.”  Silver thinks about that long after Pretty Boy falls asleep.

They don’t know when Spin Doctor will arrive but they’re ready when he does.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Travis McCoy worked to move through the ranks to become a Level 4 Scarecrow, patrolling the zones and protecting his City.
> 
> The Spin doctor surfs radiowaves late at night, bearing news, both good and bad, to runners and rats who tune into his wavelengths to drink in his words, seemingly right from the source. Though, no one can say for sure they've ever met him, he is no less a killjoy than anyone else in the zones.

         Travie wakes up: start routine. He rolls out of white sheets, white cotton comforter, drool stained white pillow case. Bright light spills through the windows, makes everything that much brighter. He shuffles into white-tiled kitchen, takes a bottle of juice out of the white fridge, an egg out of it’s cozy holder in the door, cracks it into a small frying pan, hot on the whiteandblack stove, and pops a piece of “Enriched White Bread!” into the toaster. Travie stifles a yawn against the back of his hand and opens the cupboard above the whiteandblack stove to a line of whiteonwhite pill bottles standing like dracs at the Border, except for the jar of almond butter behind them. He takes each bottle down, lining them up on the white countertop and pops the lids off of each one. 

         The toaster ticks quietly to his left, egg frying slowly, crackling in the pan over to his right. He turns on the tap and fills a glass with water, proceeding to take each correct dosage of pills out of each bottle. Travie takes a sip of his water and hums around the glass, the first pill falls down the drain. “Oops.” He says, just barely a mumble around the rim of the glass, and drops the second pill, the third, the fourth, down down the drain as the tap runs. Travie takes a plate down from the shelf above the one holding the troop of pill bottles just as his toast pops out of the toaster, he shuts off the burner and slides the fried egg on top of the toast. 

         “Maybe tomorrow.” Travie shrugs as he walks over to the small table with his glass and plate.   
  


         The normal routine follows in suit: Get showered (5 minutes sharp), methodically cover every inky line (most of his ink is from Before, but there are a few ones, hidden ones, that are recent) on his hands and wrists and throat with mandated concealer, get dressed (black suit, white shirt, black tie, black shoes, all regulation, all the same as everyone else, save for the insignia on his suit jacket), pull his hair back into the tight knot at the base of his neck (his boss gave his last warning the last time he left it just a puff of curls tied back, along with a higher dosage of yellow pill #4), grab his briefcase, his keys, and hop on the bus just pulling up at his door. 

         At work he stands behind screaming Draculoids in interrogation. He leans against the walls, long long legs crossed in front of him, arms folded across his chest with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Travie watches as the Dracs-- below him, way below, Dracs are a clouded blip in his past radar-- slamming their fists on the table, pulling out every Interrogation Tactic from their training books to get the information they think is in this young guy out. 

         Travie has been doing his job for a long time. He used to be where they were, nauseously spitting and screaming at citizens, enforcing laws he didn’t believe in. He used to feel bad for the people who were recruited in after he moved up the ranks; sympathetic pangs for the kids who had no future besides this. Now its become methodical. Growing attachments, feeling sorrow, empathy, regret, it can’t solve anything. Fortunately, he’s gotten good at doing a whole other job, one that does help. 

          The Drac in question, cuffed securely to the table and floor of Interrogation Room 4C, was found to be hoarding illicit property (music, literature, art)  and is thought to have contact with Zone Runners. Travie makes eye contact with the guy, bleeding a little from his head and his nose. He knows that the Drac doesn’t have contact with the Zones. This is just a kid recruited into the Drac’ Program fresh out of school that held on to his rebellion. This is a guy, maybe 19 years old, who doesn’t probably forgets to take his pills most mornings and finds some comfort in the beat of a bass drum in his headphones alone. 

         After forty minutes of mind numbing screaming and the same six questions being repeated at varying volumes, Travie gets tired. There’s only so much you can take from twenty-something just-promoted-and-trying-to-impress-the-boss type Draculoids before his fuse starts to sizzle down dangerously low. 

         “That’s enough for now.” Travie says, smooth, even voice cutting easily through the snarling Dracs, like a knife through genetically modified butter. 

         “But-- Sir, I-I know I can get it out of him!” Drac #1 says, the loud mouth of the two. Travie fights the urge to roll his eyes. 

         “I said, that’s enough. Take him to ReEducation. He doesn’t know anything and I’m done wasting my time.” He says evenly. Neither of the Dracs try to argue, quickly remembering their ranks and nodding solemnly like the Good Soldiers they are. 

         The rest of the day passes by normally. He slips his pills into his shirt sleeve (modified meticulously at home to hold his pills in a lining) at lunch, smiles (not too big) at his bosses, makes small talk (casual, casual) with his colleagues and hightails it back to his apartment by 4pm.

         The city goes dark at 6 that night, scheduled maintenance on all electronics, no lights, no TVs. Everyone plugs into White Noise and keeps their head down until the morning. Travie sits in his kitchen, streetlights spilling in the small window and onto the floor. He’s being a very good citizen, following the rules, no electronics at all, headphones fit snugly over his puff of hair, but plugged into the analog radio, rather than the wall. Black out nights are perfect for contact, actually. The radio waves are interference-free, crystal clear waves for him to surf, let his voice reach anyone out there that’ll hear him. 

         “Good evening and Good morning all, hope I reach you well on dark nights.” He slurs, velveteen voice deep as the toxic waters a few miles away. “While all you cats hop out the cradle to prowl where the sun don’t shine, big ol’ Mom n’ Pop got some nasty webs spinnin’ out there. While the rain may sting and the sky shines green the greater world is sittin’ pretty right under your unwashed noses, little rats.” Travie’s even line of lips lets slip a crooked smile, sweet as illegal cocktails laced with sugary syrups and bright colors. The visual shift in his body, the way his face morphs from city-regulated bare-minimum facial emotions to the slip slide of hooded eyes and loose lips, is something of another world. An alter-ego regaining consciousness after a slumber, stretching limbs if only for a second. He breathes deeper than feels safe outside his walls.  His skin breathes, makeup free.

         “The Spin Doctor’s got his eye out for you, as you may know, and the Atlantic Spirit breathes its air and pumps its blood into you every step of the way. We are all children under the sun, don’t you fret. The Ice Queen is bringing her reign right around the corner, but keep your fire in your heart and your hands in your damn pockets and we’ll all make it to see the sun rise again. That’s all for me, sand dolls, stay awake, stay alive, and most of all, stay fabulous. Spin Doctor signing out, one more time.” 

         The radio clicks metallically off, and the waves he's made ebb further and further from his lips.

 

* * *

 

         Travel is easy with resources and anonymity.  Spin Doctor has both, but getting away from the Industry is mildly complicating, to say the least.  It’s easier past the Borderlands though.  The easiest and quickest route would be to get through the Borderlands to the west, get to the Boardwalk, and pay for a boat to the Wandering City.  Spin Doctor, however, is not about to trust anyone else for transport, so he goes south.  The trip is much longer, and shelter is hard to come by.

         The first day of his trip leaves him at the edge of the Borderlands, not far enough for his taste, but the upshot is that there are sympathetics with whom he can spend the night.  For the small price of a card that entitles anyone living in Industry owned territory to an extra half ration per day for a month, he stays in the living quarters of a matronly woman.  She insists that he not speak to her daughter, a young woman with Industry bred white-blonde hair and dark eyes.  After the old woman is asleep, Spin Doctor and the young woman fuck.  The name he gives her is neither the one he is known by in the Zones, nor the one the Industry uses for him.  It’s a standard alias, but she is content with it.  He gives her an extra ration card for her own, and tells her not to tell her mother.  The young woman accepts the card and the command graciously.  She traces his tattoos and asks him questions.  He tells her he is a messenger for Spin Doctor.  That he is running an important message through the Zones.  She asks him what it is and he whispers it in her ear.  He doesn’t wish to frighten her, but her color drains and he holds her.  When he wakes up she is gone.

         The second day of his trip, he follows the coast south.  The landscape is as uneventful and the miles that disappear under his feet.  He sees few people - Killjoys have begun to disappear into their winter shelter, those who have it - but when he does he passes the message he is bringing to the Wandering City.  The message is accepted - the name Spin Doctor carries weight.  More weight than Spin Doctor can bear at times.  He spends the night in the underground basement of a long gone house.  It’s the last shelter that Spin Doctor knows between the City and the Wandering City.  Apparently someone else knows it too, because there is a cache of choice weaponry and less than choice foodstuffs in a corner and a dusty mattress against the wall that was not there the last time Spin was.  It looks like it hasn't been touched in months, though, so Spin doubts someone is coming back in the time he’ll be here.  More likely than not, the ‘Joy who had stashed here uses it like Spin, as a shelter when traveling.  That, or they’re dead.  Spin doesn't touch the food, what he's traveling with is infinitely better, but he steals several of the late model ray guns, as well as a grenade or two.  He doesn't sleep on the mattress, wary of the stains and the black spots.  He'd rather not bring mutated bed bugs or lice to the Cobras’ motel, if only because Silver would flay him alive.

         The third day of travel is bad.  It's biting cold, even through the Industry issue coat he is wearing; it is not meant for the bitter, freezing cold of pre-winter in the Zones, but the thermo-regulated brisk chill of winter in the City.  People more superstitious than he would be worried about the Ice Queen’s arrival and leave gifts and offerings for her, hoping to appease her into leaving early, thus ending winter.  Spin Doctor doesn't give much credence to Zone deities or whatnot.  It separates him from the others.  He supposes it's because he spends too much time in the City.  The cold slows him down and he dreads spending the night in the open air, frigid and vulnerable.  He is carrying a pop up tent with insulated walls, made for Industry approved camping trips (Fun for the whole family!), that he purchased months ago.  When he can walk no further, he sets it up and ducks inside.  With his pack for a pillow and his coat for a blanket, he sleeps fitfully.

         The fourth day brings him to the Wandering City.  He barters the ray guns stolen from the shelter, gaining a warm coat and gloves and a not insubstantial amount of food in the exchange.  He could easily have driven a harder bargain, gotten more -  he is  _Spin Doctor_  after all, the master of barter, everyone’s broker, a finger in every goddamn pie - but he hasn't got the time.  He puts the coat over his own and pulls on the gloves.  The food is for the Cobras.  He knows they've likely been turning away business from whatever con Silver has them running for his arrival, and that they’ve acquired a new mouth to feed.  He tells the person with whom he made the trade his message, tells her to pass it along.  She nods solemnly and wishes him luck and warmth.

         He arrives at the motel in the early afternoon, the high in the sky sun providing light but little warmth.  He sees The Pitch first, who is outside in the street, apparently on some errand. and approaches him.  He claps him on the back, and then pulls him into a hug.  Pitch reciprocates, but there is worry clouding his light eyes when Spin Doctor pulls back.  He doesn’t say anything to alleviate Pitch’s worry, because he doesn’t believe in false hope.  Pitch has every reason to be worried.  They all do.  He asks Pitch where the others are and Pitch shrugs.

         “Check Silver’s room.”  He gives Spin Doctor a room key with a number printed on it.  Spin Doctor nods and walks in through what used to be the parking lot, and makes his way through the network of buildings.  There are three, the motel proper - the complex of rooms that open to the street, the administrative building, and what could only have been called an activity building.  Spin remembers in the old days, Before, motels like this, advertising the perks of a hotel with the convenience of a motel.  He peers in through the office window as he passes and his guess is correct - someone is in there.  The someone jumps about a foot in the air when they see Spin Doctor.  After a moment, they emerge hesitantly, ray gun aimed at Spin’s chest.  Their aim is true despite the wind whipping their long hair in their face.  Spin puts his hands up non threateningly.

         “Be careful with that, someone could get hurt.”  Spin says reasonably.  They don’t lower the ray gun, their eyes don’t soften.

         “Yes.  Someone could.”  They say.

         “You must be the new guy,” Spin says, bringing his arms to his sides.  “That, or Silvertongue’s been dangerously lax about security.”  
  


        “New, yes; guy, debatable, but essentially yes.”  They say, lowering the weapon a fraction.  “They call me Pretty Boy.”

  
         “Spin Doctor.  Nice to meet you”  Spin says.  “Can you take me to the others?  I saw Pitch outside but…”  Pretty Boy holsters their ray gun. 

         “And while I am glad you didn’t shoot me, you probably should have confirmed my identity before you put that away.’’  Pretty Boy’s hand goes for the gun again.  “Don’t worry, if I’d wanted to hurt you, I would have already.”  Pretty Boy leaves their hand on the weapon, but nods.

         “Silver is with Wind-Up in the lounge.  I’m not sure where Lucky or T are.  We’ve had a lot of downtime, what with not being able to take on worshippers so that the motel would be empty for you.”  Pretty Boy sounds bitter about this last part.  When they say “worshippers,” Spin recalls the nature of the con _Las Cobras_  are running.

         “So what’s your role in the ‘Church?’”  Spin asks as they walk, matching Pretty Boy’s long strides.

         “Temple prostitute.”  They say, completely seriously.  “Silver, T, and I have been discussing me having sole responsibility for the fucking part.  It’s a big responsibility.”  Spin wonders why they’re taking this so seriously.  Spin says nothing until they reach the communal building, low - only one story - and small.

         It’s blissfully warm inside.  The entrance opens into a hallway, with an entrance to a long unused dining room on one side, and immediately on the other, restrooms from which someone has removed the gendered signs, replacing them with the words “Urinals” and “Stalls” in spray paint.  After the restrooms, there is a decrepit game room, with a moldy pool table and a foosball table missing two legs and several rows of players.  A water damaged stereo system boasts former worth.  Spin would have liked to stay here Before, it was the kind of place that was tolerably nice but cheap.  Past the game room is a room with patched sofas and armchairs, and in one corner, a broken television set.

         “Pretty Baby.”  Spin hears Silver coo, signaling that Silver has at least spotted Pretty Boy.  Spin moves next to Pretty Boy, and Silver and Wind-Up come into view through the door-less entrance.

         “Well, well, well, if it isn’t _The_ Spin Doctor.”  Wind-Up says, standing.

         Silver says something in Spanish to Wind-Up who grins.

         “Not fair.”  Pretty Boy whines.  Silver holds their arms open and Pretty Boy pouts and goes to drape themself across Silver’s lap.  Spin Doctor, whose Spanish is rusty after so long, agrees with Pretty Boy, but does not express this.

         “I need to talk to you.  All of you.  Use your weird telepathy or however it is you people communicate and get the others.”  Spin Doctor says gravely, with only a hint of humor at the last part.

         “Calm down, Spin.”  Silver says, sobering.  “You’ve travelled a long way, and on foot.  At least sit down before getting all apocalyptic.  Besides, there’s no such thing as telepathy.  I’m just very in tune with my people.”

         “In case you haven’t noticed, Silver, apocalyptic is a perpetual state of being.”  Wind-Up says.  Pretty Boy frowns and wraps an arm around Silver’s neck, in an almost comfort seeking gesture.  Wind-Up goes to sit on the arm of the chair that Silver and Pretty Boy are occupying, and rests a hand on Pretty Boy’s head.

         “This is all very touching but I need to talk to you guys.”  Spin says impatiently.

         “So talk,” a feminine voice says from behind him.  T-Blade is standing in the doorway with Lucky Strike and The Pitch, who must have found and brought them.

         “I would say good to see you, but it isn't.”  Lucky says without a trace of malicious intent.  Seeing Spin Doctor always means bad news, no matter how much they all like him as a person.

         “Telepathy.”  Spin mutters darkly, acknowledging them with a hug each.  “You fucking weirdos.”  He sits down on an armchair that is losing its springs through the bottom.  T-Blade and The Pitch sit on the sofa and Lucky Strike plants himself leisurely across both their laps, the only one of the Cobras to fit stretched out across the sofa.

         “Did you bring us presents?” T-Blade asks in a childish voice.  Spin Doctor doesn't smile.  That he, in fact, did bring presents is besides the point.

        “They’re planning something.”  Spin Doctor starts.

         ”They’re always planning something.” The Pitch yawns, plucking at Lucky Strike’s threadbare sock.  Lucky sticks his foot in Pitch’s face.

         “The Pitch is right.”  Pretty Boy says seriously, contrasting the fact that they are slithering off of Silver’s lap to the floor in front of him.  Silver puts one hand on their head where they rest it on Wind-Up’s leg.  This odd person, Spin thinks, fitting right in with his favorite group of fucking weirdos.

        “You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t something bad.”  They continue, eyes closed.   _Am I boring you?_   Spin wants to ask but holds his tongue.

         “Out with it.”  Silver says, stroking Pretty Boy’s hair.  The Wind-Up swings his leg a little, jostling them and they swat at him.

         “They’re making explosives.”  Spin Doctor says.  “A lot of them.”

 

        No one has a witty response to that.

 

* * *

 

 

         “They don’t know it’s a con.”  Spin Doctor say quietly to Silver.  They’re alone in Spin Doctor’s room, Silver having shown him to it.

         “No.”  Silver says.  “They wanted to believe in something so badly.  I couldn’t take that away from Them.”

         “They really thinks they’re doing holy work, fucking strangers.”  Spin says aloud with a sigh.  “That’s… Something.  That is certainly  _something_ , Silvertongue.”

         Silvertongue and Spin Doctor had known each other Before.

         “I’ll have to tell them eventually.”  Silver says.  “It’s going to break their heart.”

         “And you want to keep fucking them, so you’re going to draw this out.”  Spin does not ask this, he knows Silver, he knows this is true.

         “I’ve made it clear time and time again that they can stop, that they don’t have to fuck if they don’t want to.”  Spin Doctor gives Silver a hard look.  “I’ll tell them in the Spring.”  Silver sighs.

         There is a long pause.

         “I’m going to fuck them.”  Spin Doctor says.

  
         “That’ll cost you, baby.”  Silvertongue says with a grin.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by both lickmymccracken and gallifreyanathearts and is the third chapter of Happy Nuclear Winter!! The next installment of the Atlanticverse will take place in spring, and will be coming very soon (fingers crossed)! 
> 
> ((extra content is up at http://eastcoastkilljoys.tumblr.com ))


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